Who's Looking Out For Who?
by AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: WINCEST - a first for me, and dedicated to my gf, who deserves some smut today. Post 7.13 Sam really should have known that the hooker was just going to handcuff him to the bed and run off, leaving him to be found later...PWP
1. Chapter 1

_Yes, I wrote Wincest, try not to faint. This is mainly a gift to my lovely girlfriend, and I hope it doesn't appal her too much that I mangled one of her ships :P_

It had always been a reality of their existence that occasionally, one or the other of them would walk in on something they really didn't want to see.

When they'd been younger, it was usually Sam walking in on Dean. Most of it was to be expected, especially when Sam knew that his older brother had trouble keeping his hands to himself when it came to women. And the amount of times Sam had walked through an unlocked bathroom door to find Dean alone and...occupied, didn't bear mentioning.

There had been a few incidents where Sam had been caught out though, and Dean had made enough of them that it seemed like they were almost even.

Then there had been Ruby, Sam's little sanguine secret, and Dean had made it his business to keep tabs on Sam's personal life. They'd gotten closer, more wary of each other, but that made it easier to request a little privacy now and then.

Then, Lydia. And Sam had to make it his duty to try and keep track of what Dean was doing, both to himself, and any woman they happened to meet. He was worried, both that Dean would pick up the wrong woman, or that Dean would just get drunk and sloppy, and wind up dead. Whether because of a supernatural evil, or because of his own carelessness in driving or around other drinkers.

Dean seemed aware that he was now the one being watched, as opposed to the one doing the watching, which made it even more surprising when he came home from a bar at three am, to find Sam naked in their hotel room.

He paused in the doorway, a half remembered song dying on his lips. Then he swung the door slowly closed and forced himself to blink.

Nope, still Sam. Still naked.

"Dean?" Sam asked, turning his head to try and catch a glimpse of the doorway. "That you?"

"Yeah..." Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Why're you naked?"

"I..." Sam actually looked embarrassed, and his neck was red from blushing. "I picked up a girl...she...uh...wasn't exactly legit."

"No kidding." Dean's eyes wandered to the handcuffs that bound Sam to the headboard. "I assume this was a...professional lady?"

"Not exactly a lady...but yeah." Sam admitted quietly.

"Uh-huh." Dean heaved a long suffering sigh, and sat down on the chair by the door.

"Hey, just, uncuff me." Sam wriggled on the bed, and Dean fixed his eyes on the safe, bland drywall to his left.

"Not until you stop lying to me."

"I'm not lying." Sam actually sounded pissed, and Dean supposed that would bother him if he wasn't still buzzed. The whole situation was actually quite funny.

"Right, so after you lectured me about being careful, and not going home with another Lydia...you brought some random hooker back to our room?" Dean crossed his legs casually. "Not buying it."

"Yeah, it was dumb. I'm an idiot. That what you want to hear? Just, undo the damn cuffs. I can't feel my arms."

"That is a drawback of using 'em, yeah." Dean rolled his eyes. "But, the thing is, I think you're leaving something out."

"Like what?" Sam demanded.

"Like, how come you're face down, on the bed."

Sam went very still, and very silent.

"Care to explain that?" Dean smirked easily, almost enjoying his position on the conversational high ground. It had been long enough.

"I..." Sam cut himself off, turning his face to one side to avoid a mouthful of pillow. "That's not something we need to talk about."

"Oh really." Dean got up and took two steps towards the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge of the mattress and whipping the sheet off of Sam's lower body, ignoring his yelp. "I just think, it might hurt future hunts if I'm depending on you to show up, and you can't, 'cause some hooker left you tied up with a plug up your ass."

Sam kicked at him with one leg, Dean swatted him back. "Was she a lady Sam? Or, did you bring a truck-stop hustler back to the hotel? That we share by the way – so, I hope he was clean."

"Okay, fine." Sam snapped, "Haha, very funny. You're paying me back for all those times I caught you doing kinky crap with women – all the jokes about you and...Dick. Fine. Can I please get up now?"

Dean answered by lying down next to him, so he and his brother were nose to nose.

"I never would have thought you were a bottom."

Sam groaned and buried his flaming face in the pillow. Why did his brother have to be a chatty drunk?

"I mean, yeah, you're a little girly, but...you know, when you're brother's lays all die, you have to figure he's got a lot of pent up..." Dean makes a vague 'angry' gesture that Sam misses entirely, as he is trying to go to his mental happy place – far from this conversation. "Which, naturally lends itself to more of a top kinda scenario."

Sam abandons his attempts at mental serenity to glare at Dean. "And how would you know?"

Dean shrugs. "The same way I know that truck stop hustlers are kinda shady - experience."

Sam digests this.

"You...I mean, you..."

"Have pulled a midnight cowboy here and there." Dean waves the knowledge off as trivial. "Thought you knew all about that."

"I didn't."

"Huh." Dean shrugs. "S'not a big deal. Just saying that, if you want a little pillow-biting action, I'm ok with it. You can just tell me to stay out of the room for a while. Hey, go to a bar, pick up a nice guy."

Sam can actually feel reality taking a nose dive into crazy town's cuckoo clock tower.

"How could you not tell me?" He finds himself asking.

"I told you, I thought you'd twigged already. I mean, you're always joking about it...figured it was obvious." Dean fiddles with the edge of the pillow that Sam's lying on.

"It wasn't...how come I've never caught you with a guy then? I've seen you plenty of times with girls."

"Maybe I was being careful, in case of Dad finding out." Dean shrugs. "Maybe...I don't know Sam, it just happened like that. I didn't want you getting all..."

"What?"

"Nothing, just, you're the important thing, like, the only important guy to me. Thought you might get the wrong idea, seeing me with..."

"You thought I'd be jealous?" Sam really hates that this is all coming out now, because Dean is drunk, and he's tied up, and neither of them should be having this conversation.

"Are you?"

Sam doesn't even want to think about it. But...he knows, in the pit of his stomach that seeing some guy groping his brother would make him feel...something. Something bad and twisted. He knows he doesn't want to see it, couldn't write it off as 'just Dean being Dean'.

He doesn't say anything, but Dean sighs and puts his hand on Sam's bare back, patting him.

"S'ok. Not like I want some guy putting his hands all over you."

"You just told me I should go to a gay bar." Sam points out, feeling the heat from Dean's hand soak into his skin. The hand isn't moving, not patting in reassurance anymore. After a few seconds it starts to stroke his skin, almost unnoticeably.

"I want you to be safe, if you want to find a guy." Dean mutters. "Doesn't mean I w_ant_ you to find a guy."

Sam's already thinking 'We are so fucked up' before Dean's hand slides a little lower and brushes over the curve of his ass. A breath snaps into his lungs, and he looks up, as well as he can with his arm in the way. Looking at Dean with shock stealing the words from his mouth.

"This's weird." Dean mumbles, blinking and furrowing his brow, like he knows this is not something he'd do if he was sober, if their lives hadn't been whittled down in great, bloody chunks. If this wasn't all they could depend on.

"No it's not." Sam promises, leaning up and rubbing his body back against Dean's hand. What he means is, '_It's not, right now. But it will be. But I don't care.'_

But that's too much to say when his brain is only focusing on how good it would feel, just once, to have a secret together, instead of one that they had to always hide from each other.

Sam leans up and kisses his brother, and when Dean kisses back, tasting a little of sour whisky, he's so relieved. Dean rumbles something against his mouth, and Sam breaks away to nod, not needing to have understood to know that he wants this, wants anything Dean is prepared to do for him.

After everything, the apocalypse, hell, the last few months, and especially tonight – he just wants someone he can trust. And that list, is kind of limited to one person.

Dean pulls away from him, and Sam gets shockingly little warning in between the sound of a zipper going down, and the plug being drawn out of his ass. He hisses, having almost gotten used to the constant pressure, then he feels Dean's thumb rubbing against the slack opening, massaging almost unconsciously.

Sam can't help it, he pushes back impatiently, trying not to think about what Dean is going to think of him when he finally sobers up.

"Stop worrying." Dean tells him, and not for the first time, Sam wonders if he's the only one in the family with psychic power. He hears Dean click his tongue, like he's thinking – then, "Okay...this might actually hurt a little."

In all the times Sam has seen his brother naked, all the accidental incidents of nudity and _in flagrante _interruptions, he's never really taken a good look at him. Mostly he's just turned and bolted.

When the head of Dean's cock (surprisingly already hard) presses against him, and Sam feels his body struggling to open for it – he realises that Dean is pretty big, and that, he's right, this is probably going to hurt. He curls his hands into fists, pulling on the cuffs, ready to tough it out.

When the head actually wins its fight against Sam's loosened ass, both of them shiver, and Dean's breath hitches. Sam clenches a little, and after the frustratingly small plug, he's actually almost painfully glad to have something that properly stretches him. Dean pushes forwards a little more, and Sam muffles a groan into the pillow. It feels so good. The long push into his insides is utterly, inescapable.

Dean grunts as he pushes the last little way forwards, resting one arm across Sam's back to steady himself. His other hand grips Sam's hip noting the hardness of the muscle there, where there used to be springy Sammy-weight. Dimly he wonders when Sam had started turning into him, and when he'd started turning into someone he almost doesn't recognise.

"You ok?" Dean mutters.

"Yeah." Sam says.

And that's basically all the permission Dean needs.

Sam's expecting it to be fast and hard, as impersonal as possible. He's surprised when Dean starts slow, easing in and out of him, never pulling more than an inch or so away before pushing home. It feels really good, and Sam's body heats up, until he's sweating and panting, stuck between loving the deep, rolling thrusts and the heat they're sending through him, and wanting more.

Finally, he breaks the truce-like silence. "Dean...can you...move a little faster."

Dean actually stops entirely, and Sam almost whines.

"Are you criticising my technique?"

Sam pushes back against Dean, but his brother pulls away, eluding him.

"No...I like it just fine, I just like it better when it's...fast, and hard."

Dean actually laughs, and Sam feels the vibrations of it all the way up his spine. "Wow, you really have some issues."

"Says the drunk guy with his dick in his brother." Sam mutters.

Either Dean doesn't hear him, or he does and he just decides that revenge is best served hot and fast, because the next thing Sam knows the full weight of Dean is on him, and Dean's arms are folded over his head, pressing his face into the pillow, as his whole body goes into each thrust – violent, deep and totally out of Sam's control.

After a few seconds dean eases up just long enough to yank Sam's head up and gasp, "You like this?"

And Sam only has enough time to groan, "Yes" before Dean's pushing him back down, and fucking him until Sam's whole body is running with sweat, his face is burning, and he comes deep into the mattress.

Sam shivers, relaxing into Dean's menacing grip on him, feeling his brother ease up a little, till he's back to his initial, slower speed. Then slower still, till Sam's breathing evens out, and he can feel Dean's face against the back of his neck, and his brother comes with a light shudder, the almost tender rhythm of his thrusts dying down, until he's just lying on top of him, breathing quietly.

Sam swallows, and he realises that this is going to be really fucking awkward tomorrow. He also realises that Dean is going to pass out, and it's probably a good idea to have him unlock the cuffs before that happens – so that Sam can clean up and do his best to pretend that nothing ever happened.

It had always been a reality of their existence, one of their unspoken rules – what you don't acknowledge, can't hurt you.

Sam only wished that it was true.


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, thanks for the reviews guys : ) Don't worry, I have not gone over to the side of Wincest, but this story is still calling to me. And, writing this for the lovely BHJ really, really improved my night. _

Sam covers all the bases.

Once Dean has fumbled the cuffs undone, and passed out, face down on the bed. Sam sets to work cleaning up the room. The cuffs go back in his duffle, the sheets are stuffed into a laundry cart in the tiny utility room, and Sam gets fresh ones from the sloe eyes receptionist. He flings them over Dean, hoping that his brother will think, in his freshly hung-over state, that he'd torn them off in a fit of dreaming.

Then he drags Dean's pants off, removing his shoes and socks as he does so. The shirt and underwear he leaves in place.

Lastly, Sam takes a thorough, lukewarm shower, and opens a window to let the room air out, before getting into the unused bed and clicking off the lamp.

He doesn't sleep much, and every few seconds he feels a twinge of residual desire, followed by a stab of guilt.

Or perhaps it's the other way around.

Either way, the next morning, neither Sam nor Dean feels like talking. Sam is grey faced and tired, Dean is red eyed and hung-over. They get up, get dressed, and Dean doesn't even mention his unusual state of half nakedness, just shoves on some clean pants under yesterdays shirt and lies back down until Sam tells him it's time to go.

They don't stop for breakfast, neither of them is hungry.

Dean is nipping from Bobby's flask before they're even in the car, and Sam takes the wheel, as has become habit these days. What does Dean care? It's just a car, someone else's baby.

Sam thinks a lot while he's driving. He's got plenty of time, Dean isn't exactly champing at the bit to start a conversation, and the road's as straight as an arrow all the way to the horizon. Sam makes his own entertainment, as Dean had told him he had to on long drives, so long ago.

He tortures himself.

Sam goes over and over every gesture Dean has made, every word, every half-heard grunt, since they'd woken at the hotel. Trying to find some hint, some trace of repressed knowledge. Does Dean remember last night? Does he regret it? Is he angry? Bitter? Numb? Does he hate himself? Sam? Both of them? Is he thinking about times before, when they still had Dad? Or is he beating himself up about Dick Roman again? Taking last night in his stride, a good soldier, focused on the mission at hand.

Maybe he didn't remember a thing, and somehow, that eats at Sam more than anything else, the fact that Dean might have forgotten him as easily as he'd forgotten countless others.

He should have known better.

(-*-)

Five weeks.

That's how long it takes.

They're the five longest weeks of Sam's life. They work three cases, two are strings of disappearances, that turn out to be a murderous spirit and a ghoul respectively. The third is a little more complex, and ends in a waiting game, himself and Dean in a basement of an abandoned building, guns trained on a man who's handcuffed to the remains of some piping.

They're waiting to see if the spirit, if it is a spirit, is being controlled by him, and if so, how he's doing it.

It's a slow night, and cold. The guy won't stop talking, alternatively pleading and cursing at them. Dean is drinking, sitting on an upturned crate, and Sam is leaning against the wall, trying not to look at his brother, and doing a terrible job of it.

One thought keeps turning in his head, and that thought is – Dean had flinched when Sam pulled out the handcuffs.

So he remembered.

He'd known, for five whole weeks, and he hadn't said a word.

Sam had been going crazy. For over a month he'd been struggling with this...feeling in his gut. The feeling that, this was it. This was the end. There would be no last minute salvation, no deals with demons, no angel up their sleeve. They were going to die. And somehow...a kind of vertigo had spun up inside of him, looking over the edge into all the blackness of an eternity of being dead...nothing to lose. Everything to play for.

And then there was Dean, his bed only two feet away every night, and Sam lying awake, looking at the empty mattress, wondering where the hell his brother was, and why it bothered him so much when he finally came back, drunk, tired and alone, and crawled into the bed.

As opposed to Sam's.

He knew it was wrong, it wasn't a question of that. He knew. But...wrong was relative. They'd done so much wrong, so much hurt over the years. Good too, but all the same...and sometimes the wrong thing was what kept you going over the edge. What kept you sane. It was the drink you took before a kill, to woman you went home with afterwards, the lie you told to save face, the fake smile. Wrong could save you, when right tried to take away everything you had.

Bobby had done the right thing, tried to, and he was dead.

Castiel had done the wrong thing, whatever the reason, and he was dead.

Right and wrong were gone now, there was only the steadily advancing plague of leviathans, and the knowledge that...smoke 'em if you got 'em, was the only rule left in the book that still made sense.

He thinks all this with a gun in his hand, looking at a man who might be innocent, or who might be a killer.

What he says is, "Dean, we need to talk."

The look Dean gives him is the one he gets on his face when Sam mentions Dad, or Lisa, or lately, Cas and Bobby. The look that says, _If you make me talk about this, I cannot be responsible for what I do afterwards._

What Dean actually says is, "Don't."

Sam glances at their captive. So far, no ghost.

"Dean, please just talk to me...I know you remember."

Dean clenches his jaw and glares at the handcuffed man like this is all his fault somehow.

Sam wets his lips, furrowing his brow fretfully. "I've been going crazy for over a month...just...tell me that we're ok."

"We're fine." Dean practically yells.

"Yeah, this is _fine._"

"I'm trying, ok? Why the hell do we have to talk about it?"

"Because, it happened and...I can't stop thinking about it."

There's a deathly silence.

Dean is the one who breaks it. "And I really wish I could take it back, make you forget, anything...but I'm fresh out of mind-mojo, and time travel's been off the menu for a while now." He grits out. "You know, up till now I was actually grateful you hadn't tried to talk about it."

"Well...sorry if I ruined the tense silence." Sam mutters.

Dean surprises him by throwing down the beer bottle he's been holding onto for the last half hour. It doesn't break, just rolls across the cement floor.

"I'm sorry, ok, is that what you want to hear?" Dean swallows, dredging up words from the black space that sucks down all the hurt the world can throw at him. The place full of unmarked graves and lost mementos. The place where four years of a normal childhood is entombed with the scent of their mother, and memories of Dad laughing.

"I'm sorry for what happened, I'm sorry I can't stop drinking, I'm sorry I let Bobby die, sorry I couldn't stop this whole purgatory thing from happening. I'm sorry for letting you go to hell, for not finding you sooner, and I'm sorry for dragging you back into this mess just when you'd gotten out." Dean takes a breath, and Sam thinks for a moment that he sees his brother's eyes shining wetly, before Dean blinks and the sight is lost."I should never have come to get you from Stanford." He says darkly. "And, if I'm taking stuff back...it wouldn't be the last five weeks, that night...It'd be the last ten years."

"Dean..." Sam can actually feel the words like broken ribs inside of him. "You...you didn't do...any of this. Our lives...all this crap...it wasn't you. You've never done anything to me..."

Dean sounds like he's choking, but Sam thinks it's supposed to be a laugh.

"I raped you, Sam." Dean spits, and Sam could swear he can _see_ Dean's heart breaking. "How could I do worse than that?"

And, he's got it so wrong that Sam wants to laugh and punch him at the same time.

"Dean..." he starts, and that's when his breath comes out in a white cloud, and he finally hears the soft chanting in the air around them.

And everything goes to hell in a heartbeat.


	3. Chapter 3

_Last part just for you dear._

It's unavoidable in the end. Sad of course, but...so many inevitable things are, simply because they are inescapable.

The man they've been watching , who can apparently summon and control spirits, accidently summons something way above his pay grade, something angry and violent that flings Sam clear across the basement and into a wall. By the time he's scrambled to his feet, Dean's already seized a spike of broken wood, and stabbed the guy through the heart.

He dies right in front of them, choking on blood and oaths, all the magic in him, stolen through the designs he'd tattooed on himself, the talismans sewn under his skin, dying with him.

The spirit, a formless energy which carries the stench of black blood and burnt herbs, dissipates with a wail, sucking half the air from the room as it goes. Dean drops to his knees, choking, and Sam runs towards him, grabbing him around the waist and supporting his weight.

"Dean?"

Dean tries to push him away, but he's still weakened, and he sags further, until his legs slip out from under him, sending them both to the floor, Dean in a slump, Sam crouching with his arms still around his brother. He holds Dean tighter when he starts to struggle, clumsy with weakness, vicious with desperation. Sam brings his mouth close to Dean's ear, feeling his hair tickle his nose.

"Dean, you didn't do anything to me." He takes a shallow breath. "Nothing I didn't want."

Dean turns his face away, still as tense as a steel cable.

"Please, just talk to me." Sam begs.

But it's too late, and the moment of weakness is gone, Dean pulls away abruptly, shaking Sam off and getting to his feet. He storms towards the steps, but only makes it halfway over the cement floor, before Sam grabs his shoulder and spins him into a concrete pillar.

"The hell are you..." Dean struggles, but Sam has leverage thanks to his height, and he holds Dean against the pillar. It's a close run thing, their strength being almost equal.

"We're not going anywhere. Until you talk to me." Sam says, voice so low and determined as to almost be a growl.

"Let. It. Go." Dean snarls.

"You didn't do anything!" Sam almost shouts.

"Yes I did!"

"Dean..." Sam presses closer, bring their bodies into full contact, chest to chest, hip to hip, until Sam's nose brushes the side of Dean's. "I get it, you don't want to hear this...but, that night? I wanted _you."_

Dean struggles against him, growing a little wilder with each passing micro-second.

"I wanted you, to touch me." Sam continues.

Dean tries to knee him in the crotch, but Sam avoids him.

"And I wanted you to fuck me."

Dean practically loses it at that, thrashing between Sam and the pillar. "Shut up! Shut the hell up." He hisses.

"I know you wanted me too...you told me all that stuff...and, we're the same, Dean...and I still want you."

"Sam..."

Sam slides his arm up, using the forearm to pin Dean's shoulder, while his hand cups the side of Dean's face, his thumb touching his lip. When Dean looks at him, his eyes are almost black with pupil, a feral mistrust etched into them. Sam feels like there's a knife in his gut, and he knows that feeling well, and it twists each time he feels another brush of heat from Dean's body.

"I still, want you." Sam whispers, and he's drunk on the feeling of Dean so close, pressed between him and the pillar. He leans closer, and Dean tries to move away, but comes up against the unyielding concrete.

"Sam...don't..." His breathing is rough, scented with beer.

"Just..." Sam moves forwards a little. "Tell me if you feel it..."

Sam kisses Dean, and he's never had a kiss that meant this much, that stood for this much, before. He presses his body into Dean's resistant one and feels the same sting of desire that he'd felt weeks ago, under Dean's weight. He kisses him as deeply as he can, and when he pulls back a little, he finds that Dean's eyes are stubbornly open, his lips bitten red and slightly damp.

"Enough." Dean mutters. "Sam, let me go."

"Tell me you didn't feel it, that night we..." Sam shakes his head, holding Dean still more firmly. "You can't touch someone like that, and not mean it."

"I was drunk." Dean snipes.

"You were gentle Dean." Sam says pointedly. "Practically tender."

Dean kicks at his shin, trying desperately to get away.

"And I know you feel guilty, because I was tied up...but I was sober, and I wanted it. If you didn't, I'm sorry...but I think you did, that you do...and that it's scaring the shit out of you...but I'm scared too, and I need you, ok? I just need you to be _you _– and help me out here. Because I don't know what to do."

Dean meets his eyes then, and sighs. "I shouldn't have done it."

Sam growls in frustration and pushes up against him again. "Does it feel like I don't want it?"

Dean glares at him. "You're not thinking straight, neither of us are...it's the end of the freaking world Sam, again. You can't make decisions like this right now."

"Because I hallucinate, because I see Lucifer?" Sam searches his brother's face. "You think...you think I'm some kind of...head case that needs protecting."

"I've always, protected you. That's not going to change." Dean promises. "I'm not going to make you..."

"You're not forcing me to do anything." Sam says, and, just as Dean opens his mouth to argue, he kisses him again.

This time it's almost violent, their mouths clashing as Dean tries to pull away, and Sam tries desperately to keep him close. He plants one hand firmly in the join between Dean's throat and his cheek, the other pushes up under his shirt, feeling Dean flinch from him, or maybe just the coldness of his fingers.

Eventually, just for need of air, Sam pulls back, kissing Dean's cheek, the side of his nose, his throat, even as Dean turns his face to one side. Sam rests his forehead in the hollow of his brother's shoulder, hold on him going limp, his hands resting on Dean's bare waist, under his shirt.

"I'm sorry." He murmurs, moving away from Dean reluctantly. "If you don't want me, I'm sorry..."

He looks down, and finds Dean's hands on his, holding them in place.

"If you're just do this for me..." Sam mutters.

"I'm not." Dean looks up at him. "Just...fuck, just get back on me."

Sam pushes up against him again, hardly letting the words leave Dean's mouth first. His brother's body curves up to meet his, a moan half stifled between their mouths. Sam gets his arms around Dean, reaching down to shamelessly clasp at Dean's ass, although surprisingly, Dean just presses up against him further, legs opening just enough for Sam to fit between them, his own hands sliding under Sam's shirt, feeling the taught muscles of his stomach shift under his touch. Dean opens his mouth a little wider, and Sam takes full advantage, until the sounds of wet, deep kisses rebound off of the bare concrete around them. Dean's mouth produces the most obscene sounds Sam has ever heard, his throat letting out deep, hungry noises, like he'll never get enough of how Sam tastes.

It should matter that there's a dead man ten feet away, the Dean has blood on his hands, and that Sam is trying desperately not to hear the voice of Lucifer, catcalling from somewhere on the other side of the basement, but it doesn't. All the little detractions from this fierce pleasure only serve to make them fight harder to maintain it.

When Sam slips his hands down the back of Dean's jeans, inside his underwear, Dean just groans and slides a hand down to cup the front of Sam's jeans. He pulls his mouth away from Sam's long enough to mutter, "fuck", his voice scratchy and wrecked, before Sam captures his lips again, sliding their tongues together, fucking Dean's mouth slowly, reaching down with his fingers to brush over his brother's cleft.

The effect is startling, because, Sam was honestly expecting Dean to react with shock, maybe recovering some sense of moral outrage – but instead, Dean presses back into his touch, one leg rising, almost wrapping around Sam's waist to give him more access, his head tipping back against the column, throat working overtime.

Sam isn't even thinking when he does it, it's just...instinct. He pulls his hands out of Dean's pants, shoves his palms under Dean's thighs and lifts. Dean makes a sound of surprise as Sam hefts him upwards, but he clenches strong thighs around Sam's waist, arms going behind him to grab at the pillar that he has his back against.

Sam uses one hand to yank Dean's t-shirt up, licking up his exposed chest.

"Fuck." Dean sighs, hips hitching forwards, rubbing their crotches together in a rush of denim on denim. "Feels so good Sammy."

They pause, and their eyes meet. There's a weird kick in Sam's gut, hearing his name, that stupid little pet name coming out of Dean's mouth, now of all times. He reaches up with one hand, leaving Dean's leg to dangle unsupported, and grabs the collar of the t-shirt, ripping it open in one swipe.

"Sam." He says, firmly, then dips his head to bite at Dean's nipple.

Dean's hand fists in his hair, a moan his only reply, Sam grabs his thigh again, and they dry hump in earnest, Dean thrashing against the concrete, arching up against Sam's weight, Sam pushing against him, mouth biting and sucking at Dean's chest until his brother starts to shake, and beg.

He drops him with no warning, letting go of his legs, watching Dean's stumble as his feet hit the concrete. He grabs his waist, turns him, pushes him forwards and yanks down his jeans, his underwear, leaving Dean to grab the pillar for leverage. It's only as Sam is sticking his hand between Dean's legs, cradling his sac, squeezing, rolling it in his palm. That he asks, "You ok?"

Dean's legs are shaking, his fingers white on the concrete. He doesn't answer, just reaches around, grabs Sam's other hand blindly and brings it down to feel his cock, where it hangs, heavy and blood filled, between his legs. Sam rubs his own erection, still held in his jeans, against Dean's ass.

Dean kicks his feet out of his jeans, losing a boot in the process. Sam kicks at the inside of Dean's feet, widening his stance.

"You sure about this?" He pants.

Dean braces himself against the pillar. "Fuck me already."

Sam touches his back. "I mean it Dean...don't do this for me."

Dean lets his head hang forwards.

"Sam?" He mutters, and it's gruff, almost too soft to hear. "Please just...just touch me, ok? I wanna feel you."

Sam slides his arms around his brother's stomach, kissing the small strip of flesh exposed by the intact back of his shirt. Dean hums softly at the back of his throat.

Sam reaches down and gently probes between his cheeks, smoothing with his fingers, touching the nervously puckered flesh.

"I don't have anything." Sam mutters.

"Not my first time." Dean replies, archly.

Sam spits on his fingers, no way to do it delicately, and reaches down again, one finger reaching _in._ Dean hisses, but stands still and lets it happen, trying to control his internal muscles. All the while Sam strokes his side, his stomach, pushes his shirt back up and kisses his spine.

"Aww, I feel special." Dean quips, but it falls short of a joke, and after that he stays quiet, only hissing or grunting as Sam goes deeper, adding a second finger. After a few minutes, Sam moves up to three, swirling them around the hot, dry walls that clamp down on him. Dean's whole body jumps, and he leans a little further forward, resting his head on his arm.

"Did it hurt?"

"No." Dean grouses. Then, after a few seconds. "Do that again."

Sam does.

Dean widens his legs, leans back a little, and Sam repeats the little twitch of his finger.

"Ugh...thats good." Dean's body is looser now, almost inviting, his voice drowsy. Sam twitches his finger a few more times, until Dean is thrusting back onto it, then he pulls his fingers free, and undoes his jeans.

Dean stiffens again at the sound of Sam's belt coming undone.

Sam settles one hand on Dean's shoulder, the other on his hip. "Tell me, if I hurt you."

"Well, I'm not going to keep quiet." Dean's voice breaks a little, and Sam winces.

"You don't have to do this."

Dean tips his head, kisses the fingers on his shoulder. "Do it."

Sam puts a hand on himself, lining up with the surprisingly pink little pucker in front of him. There's give on both sides, and he's kind of caught in the sight of Dean opening a little, his own foreskin sliding back as it's pushed by the tight little ring of muscle. He moves forwards, and the first bit of give is excruciatingly good, a hot swallow around him. Dean's groan is every bit as rewarding. Sam edges in a little more, and Dean hisses, clenching involuntarily.

"Don't stop." Dean grunts.

"Won't." Sam promises. "Can't."

He pushes, and Dean opens with a tight little whine, trembling in a way that he really wishes he could stop, because it's not exactly manly.

"All in." Dean pants. "Fuck."

Sam pushes forwards again, this time managing to bottom out, another inch inside.

"You gotta be kidding me." Dean says, and there's a hint of a grin in his words, a mouthful of sneaky smartass. His head rolls back on his shoulders, and Sam nips at his neck. "Feels so fucking good. So big Sam."

"Good." Sam mutters, biting a little harder than usual at Dean's pulse, reassured when no reprimand comes. "Hold on."

Dean braces himself against the pillar obediently, and Sam wraps an arm around the top of Dean's chest, giving himself something to grip as his pulls out and slams back in.

Dean quickly goes limp in his grip, still hard, still moaning fit to bust, but compliant to every bite, every deep, stretching thrust of Sam inside of him, every jerk of Sam's fingers in his short hair. He rolls his hip back and mutters, words that Sam can't really catch over his own racing heart, his own laboured breaths, but he gets the occasional, _more, fuck, Sam, big, harder_...

Dean drops a loose arm down and, bracing one arm against the wall, leaning forward despite Sam's death grip on him, he jerks himself messily, shaking legs kicked out wide on the concrete, slamming his body back into each of Sam's thrusts. Sam moves with him, sinuously, its rough, and fast and hard – but somehow it's also as smooth as a practiced move – like they know this, the way their bodies work together.

And he realises that they do.

He's never seen Dean like this before though, panting, whining, desperate to come, but clinging to the sex itself, the closeness, throwing himself into it, like he was born to be spread out like this, taken rough and deep and dirty in an abandoned basement.

Sam yanks his brother's hair, pulling his head back so he can whisper in his eye.

"Tell me you've never done this before."

"Wha—"

"Tell me." Sam changes his angle by accident, and Dean grows as he spears hard against just the right spot. "Tell me you never had someone fuck you like this before."

Dean pants and shivers, and for a long, long moment, Sam thinks he's not going to say anything. He has no idea why it matters, why he needs to hear it. No idea why, here of all places, he's thinking of all the nights Dean was out late, since they were kids. All the times he looked guilty the next morning. Sam doesn't know why he's thinking of the wad of tan fabric at the bottom of Dean's bag. But it sticks a needle into his heart, and he needs this, he needs Dean to say...

"No one." Dean gasps, and Sam catches a glimpse of his face, damp with sweat, lips swollen, hair pulled into rough peaks. "No one's fucked me like this before."

Sam wraps his arm around Dean's sweat slick stomach, and pounds him until he jerks, clenching and writhing as Sam holds him down on his dick, letting the little contractions throw him over the edge.

He bends over Dean's back, breathing hard, dripping sweat, and Dean lets him, limp hands still resting on the pillar, his whole body trembling.

Sam reluctantly slides himself out of Dean, stands up, lazily pulling up his pants and fastening them. Dean stands shakily, as wrecked as a virgin caught in a car after prom. He winces as he straightens up, his ripped shirt hanging off him, exposing the hickeys and red rings of teeth marks that Sam left on his chest. He bends his knees, fumbles to get his bare foot back into his jeans, fingers having trouble as he pulls them up. In the end Sam fastens them for him. Dean leans his head against his shoulder.

"What'd we do?" He asks, speech slurred by exhaustion. "Sam, what..."

Sam puts his arms around him.

"It's ok...it's gonna be ok, and...we're going to be just us Dean. Like always."

Dean squeezes him back, and they move away from the pillar, from the smell of sex and blood and death – towards the splintery wooden steps.

Later, watching Sam sleep in their hotel room, Dean drains the last of his beer and wonders if this was always going to happen. If this was how it always had to end. Him and Sam, and nothing else between them – not Bobby, not Ruby, not Cas...not even the thin wall that kept family, family – and not something else, something darker and harder to explain, infinitely more subtle and painful – but burning with a fiercer light.

It's unavoidable in the end. Sad of course, but...so many inevitable things are, simply because they are inescapable.


End file.
